Home away from home
by I'm Nova
Summary: A case brings Sherlock and John to Peru. The difficulties in finding their criminal are...unexpected. Happy Birthday, my dearest Ennui Enigma, this is for you!


_Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Happy birthday and many, many happy returns, my Muse! I'm afraid I brought your prompt in weird directions (aka, sorry if it is OT) ^^''' and the unexpected load of angst, I blame the rain… I just hope you'll enjoy and not hate this!_

Home away from home

Sherlock could, if he wanted to, deal with anything. He'd been alone in his years away – and mimicked the locals well enough that no one had batted an eye at the out of place man, or wondered, 'wait...have I seen this arsehole somewhere before?' But he didn't have to, now, and he relished that. A case had brought John and him to Peru, and even if he hadn't visited it during his…'absence' (Moriarty's web spanned more north), he could have adapted like a chameleon. He just didn't want to.

He was allowed to be himself again. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, known pain in the arse, and British man. So, even if he had experienced much, much worse, he relished the chance to complain. Just to John, of course, and not even all that much, really…but he was finally allowed culture shock (not something you could indulge in when running for your life) and he would indulge it with enthusiasm.

John, who was used to much, much worse too, honestly didn't even understand why his love – whom he could claim as such, _finally_ – gave such a good impression of a disgruntled cat at the moment. After all, now no one was actively shooting at them…yet, at least. So, seriously, complaining about the completely crazy traffic or the different standards for personal space sounded ridiculous. Though he'd openly admit that he'd never been happier that he hadn't managed to get his driving license, and that Sherlock was posh enough that cabs were his default choice, because the idea of renting a car and trying his luck there seemed a suicide mission if ever he'd seen one. Only someone born here could brave the roads with the necessary recklessness.

That said, people were very welcoming, when four wheels didn't turn them into wannabe murderers, the food was delicious, and John could imagine many, many places that would be worse to be stuck in after an international smuggler finally turned murderer. He would really like to know why the man who, back home, fraternised with the homeless, here glared if his bubble of personal space was invaded (which happened, let's be honest, every ten seconds). They were minor annoyances, really. And with how helpful everyone had been, it was a pity.

Really, he'd had to grumble, "Bit not good, love," so often that he was considering just writing a sign and wearing it. It would be more expedient. One would think that the sleuth would have known not to antagonize people while still trying to extract information from them, at least. With a long-suffering sigh, the doctor decided to blame the weather for his partner's crankiness. That, and jet lag. Sherlock could be a big baby sometimes. Well, that just gave John the chance to spoil him back to a good mood.

If he let himself be spoiled, that was…the consulting detective seemed determined to be annoyed. John, honestly, was loving it here. He would have considered coming back for a holiday, if he wasn't sure that he'd have to come alone. They'd been apart long enough that separate holidays weren't appealing at all, the mere idea causing a low anxiety in his John's gut. He didn't care about how many people said it was healthy to take a breather from your partner every now and then. Or how many would imply that he should require at least triple the amount of everyone else's peaceful time. He wasn't going to leave Sherlock alone if he could help it.

That was the very reason he'd followed his lover here in the first place. The hospital hadn't been enthusiastic about him taking yet another indefinite leave, that was for sure. The consulting detective could definitely protect himself, he knew, but John would have been useless to anyone all the same, more than half his brain busy worrying over his partner.

He hoped their absence would be a week at most, if they could trace the man they were after…and somehow trick him into going back to the UK. That was the plan. Or they would at least track him down and let Lestrade work out the details of extradition, but even with Mycroft's help (and the DI wouldn't ask for it unless he was truly desperate) it would be a complicated, long process.

Then, of course, fate seemed to laugh at them. They were assured that someone knew the hideout of their underground criminal…a man in his fifties, living in an isolated part of the inland. The man had some affiliation with their quarry, but – according to their sources – not enough to cover for him once informed of what the other had done.

Instead of following their suggestions, the detective had decided – upon meeting him in a local coffee house - that accusing the man of complicity would be their best bet, only to be faced with the truth that not only consulting detectives could be annoying smartarses.

The accused had assured he'd tell them all, and then proceeded to do so…in a language that was decidedly not Spanish, if the sleuth's dumbfounded look was anything to go by. The other patrons of the place laughed loudly.

That didn't seem to faze Sherlock for more than a moment, though. He continued to ask questions, listening intently to the man, who obligingly answered everything, but always in his mystery language.

After an hour, the detective took John by his arm and dragged him out. "It's outrageous!" he hissed. "I was sure I just needed a bit more data to figure out which language he was speaking, it wouldn't be the first time that I've learned a language or cracked a code on the fly…but I can't even figure out to which family the dialect he uses belongs!"

"Well, why don't you ask him which language he's speaking? With any luck, you can find a dictionary online then," his blogger proposed.

The fact that Sherlock did just that showed how desperate he was. The result, a single word accompanied by a smug smile, did indeed come up on the web…but not as a dictionary. It was prominent in lists about endangered languages. They'd been unfortunate enough to stumble on the sole speaker alive. And the sleuth's puzzlement was reasonable, as the language hadn't any demonstrable connection with any family of still spoken idioms in the world.

John couldn't help himself. He chuckled. "You just had to piss off this one, didn't you?"

The detective turned on him with a look of shock and wounded pride. "There's a murderer on the loose! Do you have any useful suggestions?" he snapped.

"Apologise, maybe?" the doctor said, shrugging.

It wasn't often that anyone could get amends out of Sherlock…but with his partner's gentle prodding, and the prospect of a murderer escaping justice because of his lack of manners, the consulting detective finally capitulated. He offered the most formal, flowery-prosed regrets ever heard in this century, which made the offended man chuckle.

"We can forget this happened," he said, in Spanish, "we'll discuss the matter without the past weighing on us…after you've been my guests. At home."

Sherlock tried to wave the offer aside, but a stern, "I insist," made him agree.

You'd think that the rest would all have been easy…but again, there were moments when Sherlock looked downright ready to panic. Being guests meant being showered with food, and his fasting during a case rule had to be tossed away. And apparently, even his attempt to eat the minimum possible of any dish got him dirty looks. They were expected to get seconds, and preferably thirds.

John certainly didn't mind. He would often loudly compliment the cooking and intercept the tray when it went towards his friend, much to the detective's relief. But it wasn't long before Sherlock waited until their guest turned to look at one of his nephews to slip some of his food into John's plate. He was very relieved by the relatives' impromptu visit. True, they brought even more food, and stopped them from discussing the case at the table as some were too young. But they distracted the man enough for him not to explode by the end of the night. Thank God that he had long training in that trick, as he had more part in Mycroft's chubbiness as a teen than he wanted to admit.

And after the dinner, their host listened to them and – as expected – had been so horrified that he promptly told them where to find his old friend, and even offered his older nephews' help to catch him.

"That wasn't so bad, was it, love?" John mused, on the way back.

"We have to go catch a murderer tomorrow because I'm too full to move," Sherlock whined.

"Well, he won't move either. And really, I'm quite happy with the result. Tonight, I have you all to myself…and I don't mind doing all the work," the blogger said, winking.

"How do you even breathe?" the sleuth queried.

"I eat birds, not like a bird…and right now, there's definitely room for a bit of cock," John replied. Out there in the street.

Sherlock's blush was the most adorable thing in existence.


End file.
